The Reawakened

by Jeri Smith-Ready

  After a long, silent moment, he said, “You feel alone inside yourselves. I know. I’ve felt the same way since Wolverine left.”

  Sura’s chest tightened at the sadness in her father’s voice.

  He cleared his throat. “My brother died at the beginning of this war. I’ll probably die before the end of it.”

  The platoon members murmured weak protests. Sura bit her lip and blinked to keep from crying. As much as she wanted them all to have a normal life, she couldn’t imagine her father dwelling happily in peacetime. His wounds ran too deep.

  Lycas continued. “We’ve all lost someone. A few of us have lost everyone.” He nudged his horse to walk along the line. “But we are not alone.” His voice strengthened. “Our Spirits have not abandoned us, any more than our fallen brothers and sisters have abandoned us. Crow can never take them away, as long as we remember them.”

  Sura’s breath came faster as hope dared to spark within her. She looked at the rest of the platoon. Their backs straightened, and their hands curled around their weapons.

  Lycas’s voice boomed forth.

  “Tonight we ride to Asermos, but we fight for Kalindos, for Tiros, for Velekos and all the lands in between. We are not four peoples but one.” He stopped his horse in the center of the line. “We are the Reawakened.”

  The entire platoon shared a collective gasp. The back of Sura’s neck tingled at the sound of the word. Reawakened.

  “We are not the Reawakened because we have magic,” Lycas said. “Magic didn’t make us great warriors. We made each other great, through years of training and discipline. Nothing can take that from us. Nothing can take our will to fight for our people.” He struck his fist against his chest. “The Spirits chose us, and when we stand as one, They live inside us.”

  Lycas urged the horse into a trot, up and down the line. His black hair mirrored the horse’s flowing mane and tail as they moved.

  “Dead or alive,” he shouted, “the Spirits ride with us tonight.

  They fight with us. And we fight for Them.” He drew his longest dagger. “We fight for Wolf!”

  “For Wolf!” the Wolves called.

  “For Cougar!” He stabbed the dagger into the air.

  “For Cougar!”

  “For Bear!” he roared.

  “For Bear!”

  “For Wolverine!” Lycas stretched the end of the word into a war cry that held as much power as ever. The other Wolverines joined him, and every muscle in Sura’s body trembled. For a moment, she doubted the Spirit had died at all.

  She joined in, with everyone else, regardless of Animal, until the hills themselves seemed to quake. She cried out until her throat ached and her lungs felt like they would burst.

  “To Asermos!” Lycas roared through the noise, and they rode as one.

  Rhia groaned in dismay as she and the hundred-plus Kalindons approached Lycas’s empty headquarters just after sunset. It looked as if it had been abandoned in haste—the tents stood open, and the campfires had been covered only enough to douse them, not conceal them.

  “Maybe they’ve left for the hamlet,” Tereus said as he dismounted with a sharp exhale. “Perhaps they had the dreams, too, or they found out about the burning some other way.”

  “They haven’t been gone long,” Dravek said. “I can still smell their horses.”

  Marek rode to the edge of the ridge and looked down into the valley. “You’re right. The dust isn’t even settled yet on the lower part of the trail. We can’t be too far behind them.”

  Rhia bit her lip hard. If only they’d skipped one more meal, or gotten up an hour earlier that morning. After the entire camp of Kalindons had dreamed of the box of fire, Tereus had used his Swan powers of dream-speak to understand their meaning. The hamlet would burn, full of people.

  Rhia and every other able-bodied Kalindon had ridden as fast as they could, to warn Lycas and save the hamlet. The terrain had been rough, and from here on in it would be easier traveling, except for the darkness.

  “Let’s light another torch,” she said. “And keep riding.”

  13

  Asermos

  “To the water that delivers us from all vermin!”

  Captain Addano held his wine goblet high to the hurrahs of the six guards. He took a tiny sip and smiled as they drank deeply of his offering.

  Sergeant Kiro swallowed, then let out a gasp. “Sir, this is the best wine I’ve tasted all year.”

  “A special vintage for a special occasion.” He held up the empty bottles, one in each hand. “Tonight we celebrate the end of the plague known as Mali the Wasp. As a token of my appreciation to our friend the drowning tub, I offer it the rest of my glass.” With a dramatic flourish, he poured the red liquid into the empty tub.

  The guards hooted and applauded. “I would’ve finished it for you,” said one, laughing. “As a favor, of course.”

  “A gracious offer, but I want Mali’s last watery breath to be tinged with the gift of Evius.” He bowed to the cheers, his head already floating. “Now hurry and finish. If General Lino finds out I’ve let you drink on duty, I’ll be next in line for execution.”

  As they quaffed the contents of their goblets, he went to sit at his desk so that he could finish his letter, and so that none of them would fall on him when they collapsed.

  It took less than ten seconds for all six to topple. The last one, Sergeant Kiro, gave Addano a bewildered gaze as he realized what had happened.

  “Sir…why?” he choked before the drug stole his consciousness and perhaps his life.

  “It’s all in the letter.” Addano started to sign the bottom of the parchment. The letters of his rank and first name appeared ragged, clearly written by a trembling hand. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Then he spent his last shred of concentration on smoothing the signature of his last name. He wanted to leave no doubt as to his certitude.

  He put down his pen, then placed the letter in the center of his desk. As an afterthought, he set stone paperweights at two of the corners so it wouldn’t blow away. He noticed how slow and deliberate his movements had become—an effect of the narcotic in his small sip of wine. Perfect.

  Humming the Ilion national anthem, Addano pulled a pair of women’s boots from his bottom drawer. He lifted the keys from his desk, made his way through the maze of unconscious guards, and went downstairs to the women’s prison.

  “Put these on.” He tossed the boots to Mali as he entered the cell block.

  “A bit early, isn’t it?” She sprang to her feet as if she were going to a party. “What about all my admirers? You’re not snuffing me in secret like you did Sirin, are you?” She clucked her tongue. “And after I sent written invitations.”

  He lifted the keys on the ring hooked to his belt. “See these? They’re yours.”

  “Mmm-hmm. And which part of you do I have to suck before you tell me it’s a joke?”

  “It’s not a joke, and I wouldn’t put anything in your mouth that I wanted to remain attached to my body.”

  She glanced into the next cell, where Berilla the Hawk lay drugged and silent, as always.

  “You’re setting me up, aren’t you?” Her gaze flicked past him. “Where are the guards?”

  “Upstairs asleep, possibly forever.” He pulled the bag of opium powder from his vest pocket and shook it next to his head. “I drugged their wine.”

  She gave him a sideways look, still skeptical. “Looks like you had a few sips yourself.”

  “I did, just one.” He tossed the bag over his shoulder. “That way it won’t hurt so much when you kill me.”

  Mali’s face froze. “What do you mean?”

  “If you escape, it’ll be my fault, whether they know it’s on purpose or not. But if you kill me, I can keep some small scrap of honor. Besides—” He looked at the ceiling. “Maybe when I’m dead, I won’t see their faces anymore.”

  “You mean the guards?”

  “Or hear their screams.”

  “Oh
. You mean us.” Without looking away from him, she crouched down and slid the boots through the bars.

  “Take the other prisoners and go,” he said. “You can still save your people.”

  “What people? Where?” She stuffed her feet into the boots.

  “They’re burning the hamlet tonight with a thousand Asermon natives inside.”

  She jerked the bootlaces to tighten them. “Where is it?”

  “Take the road toward Tiros about fifteen miles, then look to the east. And hurry.” He held out the key ring and stepped closer to the bars so she could see. “This small one is for the weapons closet on the first floor, and the ones with the—”

  “Thank you.” Her hands flashed between the bars. One snatched the keys while the other grabbed the back of Addano’s head.

  Steel slammed his forehead. A sharp pain exploded through his skull. His knees gave way, and he collapsed. Red and yellow splashed across his vision, then all turned to black.

  Addano felt his leg twitch and kick, like that of his boyhood dog when its back was scratched. His fingers spasmed, nails scraping the stone floor. Something hard and cold pushed against him. His body was rolled over like a sack of flour.

  The pain faded. He waited for Xenia to gather him up in Her dark robes and carry him to the afterlife.

  She came, in the form of a giant black bird whose eyes glowed like the stars in winter.

  You’re not what I expected, he thought to the bird, just before it enveloped him in violet light.

  14

  Asermon Valley

  The arrow was coming loose.

  As Lycas rode through the night toward the Asermon Valley, he pretended he didn’t feel the two-inch piece of wood embedded in his chest, chafing the scar tissue that had held it in place and protected him for the last year. Jolts of pain jabbed his core with every slam of his horse’s hooves, but his face and posture showed no hint. If his troops knew that every twitch of muscle brought their leader closer to death, it would destroy their morale. Right now, their morale was all they had.

  He tried not to obsess over it, tried to focus on the tactics they would use to attack the hamlet, tried to envision the elements of the different scenarios they might face—the number of enemy combatants, the situation of the civilians, the size of the blaze.

  But his mind shifted relentlessly, to the night he’d received the wound, at the Battle of Velekos, from an accidental shot of his own archer. He should have pulled it out right away, before his body became too hard and solid to extract it without risky surgery. He’d known that Wolverine could die, that one day his own flesh could turn as soft as the day he was born.

  But denial and determination had kept him going this long. Why stop now?

  They were skirting one of the last two remaining vineyards when Vara shouted his name. He slowed his horse so she could ride up beside him.

  “They’ve set the fire, I can feel it.” Her voice was taut with tension.

  “How far away?”

  “A mile or two. We should see it just over the next hill.”

  He signaled for the troops to increase their speed from a trot to a slow canter. He wanted to rush in at a full gallop, but riding in the dark was treacherous, especially since the Cougars could no longer lead with their night vision. A horse could step in a hole and break a leg, throwing its rider and bringing down the whole line.

  They reached the top of the hill and came to a halt. The distant fire leaped out of the darkness like a thousand meteors falling at once.

  Yorgas the Bat joined Lycas. “Sir, the people are screaming. I hear women and children.”

  Lycas’s pulse raged in his temple. He didn’t want to believe the Ilions would roast a thousand civilians, but the ears of a Bat never lied.

  Vara rode up and stopped on the other side of him. “I have an idea to help us overcome the odds.” She gestured to Sura behind them. “Let her handle the fire. I’ll make the soldiers forget why they’re there.”

  He furrowed his brow. “Wipe their memories? Doesn’t that take time?”

  “Not when I don’t bother with finesse.” She leaned in and lowered her voice. “I can burn all their memories in a moment. They won’t remember who they are, much less what they’re fighting for.”

  He turned on his riding blanket to look straight at Sura. “It’ll be the biggest fire you’ve ever controlled. You can do this alone?”

  “I won’t just control it.” Sura’s strong, steady gaze held his. “I’ll extinguish it.”

  “How?”

  “Let me worry about that.”

  He saw his own despair and determination reflected in her ink-black eyes. Like him, she didn’t plan to survive.

  He shook his head. “Sura, I can’t let you—”

  “I’ll help her,” Vara told him, “as soon as the troops have been subdued.” She held up her palm to Sura. “Wait until I get there before you take the fire inside you.”

  “Sir,” Yorgas said suddenly. “I hear fighting.”

  Had one of Lycas’s other platoons already arrived? Impossible—there hadn’t been time for them to receive the news, prepare to fight and then travel to the hamlet.

  Lycas didn’t care. No matter who rose to assist or oppose him, it would be his last battle. “Let’s get closer.”

  When they were less than a quarter-mile from the hamlet, Lycas saw that the fire was contained within the fence, which remained intact. Cries of panic and shrieks of pain came from the other side. From here he could see no gate, no way out.

  About a hundred Ilion soldiers, some on horseback, were clustered outside the eastern end of the hamlet. As Yorgas had heard, they were struggling with another group of fighters, near a gate that appeared locked and barred. The Descendant soldiers outnumbered their opponents at least four-to-one.

  But no longer.

  He signaled his troupe to halt, and turned to face them. “We circle around to approach them from the east, drawing them away from the hamlet.” He handed his torch to Medus. “Stay here with Sura. When the soldiers move away, take her to the gate. Defend her with your life.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Lycas looked at his daughter one last time. “Good luck.”

  “You, too.” They stared at each other for a long moment, then she closed her mouth.

  He took a deep breath, pain piercing his chest, and began the Wolverine war cry. The others joined in, until the ground seemed to shake beneath their horses’ hooves. Then they rode, streaming down the hill.

  The Ilions turned his way, their red-and-yellow uniforms illuminated by the flames that now reached higher than the hamlet fence.

  “Remember Kalindos!” the Ilions shouted as one, and rushed at Lycas’s troops.

  Instead of meeting them head-on, Lycas and his fighters rode to the left, down the grassy slope away from the hamlet. Most of the Ilion soldiers followed, no doubt eager to vanquish their prime enemy now that he was weak.

  A tall Descendant on horseback charged Lycas, who twisted his body and barely avoided the slash of sword. Lycas’s horse reared in panic, unaccustomed to the chaos of battle.

  Another Ilion came at him, and Lycas rolled off his mount to escape.

  His body slammed the ground. The arrow stabbed him from within.

  Lycas wanted to scream in pain, but he had no breath to make a noise. He struggled to get his feet under him.

  A heavy weight tackled him from behind, driving his face into the mud. A hand grabbed his hair and jerked back his head. A low voice growled in his ear.

  “It’s your turn, beast.” A blade touched his throat.

  Roaring in pain and rage, Lycas shoved his arms and knees against the ground. He flipped over on his back, crushing his attacker beneath him. The man’s breath whooshed from his lungs.

  Lycas grabbed the gloved hand that held the knife. He squeezed, but no bones shattered in his grip. The blade came closer to his neck.

  “He’s mine!” An Ilion swordsman rushed them, pointing
his weapon at Lycas’s gut. Lycas arched his back and launched a desperate kick. The toe of his boot landed in the groin of the oncoming soldier. The man screeched and doubled over, still holding his sword.

  “Lycas, close your eyes.”

  The commanding voice belonged to Vara. He obeyed.

  Suddenly the soldier holding him loosened his grasp. Lycas rolled to his feet. He seized the soldier he’d kicked, then twisted their bodies around so that he had him in a headlock facing Vara. Lycas averted his eyes.

  The Snake woman stepped closer. Lycas’s would-be attacker went limp in his arms.

  He dropped him and wrenched the sword from his hand. The Ilion stared up at him with bewilderment. Lycas resisted the urge to end the man’s confusion with a jab to the heart.

  “Behind you!” Vara shrieked.

  Lycas spun, lifting the sword. It met another blade arcing down toward his head. The steel-on-steel clash reverberated throughout his body. The Descendant bore down hard, stronger than any Lycas had ever fought. But he knew that his opponents hadn’t gained strength; he had lost it.

  In one desperate motion, he shoved the Descendant back and made a flailing slash with his sword. A red ribbon opened across the front of the man’s neck, just above his leather chest armor. He put his hands to his wound. The blood oozed through his fingers, and he collapsed.

  Lycas stopped, panting, and whipped his gaze around, looking for more attackers. His fighters had formed a circle around him and Vara. Without it, he realized, the Ilions would have swarmed him, and he would already be dead.

  Amid the melee, Ilion soldiers wandered, either unarmed or with their weapons hanging loose at their sides. They jerked their heads back and forth, eyes wide with panic and confusion. Vara’s victims.

  A Descendant broke through and rushed at Lycas, roaring and raising his sword. Lycas tried to lift his own sword, but a blinding pain pierced his chest. He dropped the weapon and ducked into a lunging tackle. He knocked the man off his feet and landed on top of him. As they hit the ground, the arrow stabbed Lycas’s flesh again, stealing his breath.